Flipping Out

by Marshall Karp

  Diana seemed calm by comparison. She kissed me as if we'd been separated for months, and before you could say, 'Don't forget about that double homicide, Detective,' I was hard as a crowbar.

  She responded with a gentle pelvic thrust and a series of tiny kisses that went from my ear to my lips and radiated south. 'You don't have to buy me the house,' she whispered. 'Just take me home and fuck me.'

  This is probably why LAPD discourages cops from bringing dates to crime scenes. All those flashing lights, guys in uniform, and the drama of a cold-blooded murder can get a girl as horny as a teenager on prom night.

  I pulled out of the clench as Marisol came toward us, her heels machine-gunning their way up the walk. Tony was right behind her, but all eyes, and there were lots of them at the scene, focused on the hot little Latin package wrapped in black and bronze. The black was a slinky piece of fabric that started halfway down her boobs and ended in mid-thigh. The bronze was all Marisol. Not your traditional real estate lady look, but, hell, this is LA.

  Her make-up was perfect. The loss of two more business partners had not evoked any emotion that might smear her mascara. In fact, she looked pissed. Or at the very least, inconvenienced.

  She walked right at me. 'Let me see the note, Lomax,' she said.

  I gave her a blank look. Before I could ask her to explain, Tony came up behind her and put his hands on her bare shoulders. 'There is no note,' he said.

  Marisol whirled around at Tony. 'Cabrón!' she yelled.

  Tony went right back at her. 'I made it up, because you're such a perra terca, that was the only way I could get you out of that goddam house.' He turned to Kilcullen. 'She didn't want to shut down the party, so I told her the killer left a note saying she's next.'

  'If you had given me ten more minutes I would have had an offer from that dentist and his wife,' she said.

  'It doesn't matter what offer you'd have gotten tonight,' Tony said. 'When word gets out that Nora was murdered, the price is going to go sky high.'

  'Sounds like a motive,' Kilcullen said.

  'A motive?' Marisol said, turning her fury on him. 'Kill an author who could have written ten more books and sold ten more houses, just to drive the price up on this one? Pendejo!'

  I didn't know what it meant, but Tony did, and he winced. 'Boss, I'm sorry,' he said. 'She's upset. This was supposed to be her big night...'

  'We're all upset,' Kilcullen said. 'Charlie showed up with chest pains. We had to ship him off to Cedars.'

  'Jesus,' Tony said. 'What have we got so far?'

  'Same basic M.O. Lomax and Biggs are still working the scene. Then they're going to want to talk to you all individually. In the meantime, I'll authorise round-the- clock protection for both Marisol and Marilyn.'

  'You think we're next?' Marilyn said.

  'Nobody's next,' Kilcullen said. 'It ends here. But just to be on the safe side, I'll have a female detective spend the night with each of you.'

  'Forget it, Lieutenant,' Marisol said. 'I have a male detective who is spending the night.' She poked a finger in Tony's chest. 'If he stops lying to me.'

  'And I've got two cops living with me,' Marilyn said.

  'How about if I post a squad car in front of each of your houses,' Kilcullen said.

  'I accept,' Marilyn said.

  Marisol held up both hands. 'Not me. Putting some cop in front of my house isn't going to do shit. And then he's going to follow me wherever I go? No thanks.'

  'Are you sure?' Tony said. 'I'm not going to be home all the time.'

  'Like I need you to baby-sit? I spend six days a week with a bunch of nasty-ass illegals. They got knives, they got power tools, they got shovels, and they all hate my guts, but I'm not afraid of them, and they know it,' Marisol said. 'Don't worry. I can take care of myself.'

  Nobody argued the point.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  'How can I help?' Big Jim said, after the crime lab took his prints and relieved him of his bloody shoes.

  'You can start by taking me off your speed dial,' I said.

  'I'm not talking long term. I mean tonight.'

  'Actually, I've been looking for a three-hundred-pound control-freak teamster to help me with logistics.'

  He patted his belly. 'Look no further.'

  'I just spoke to my boss and got official dispensation to let Marilyn and Diana stay here until Terry and I finish. We'll drive them home, but their cars are still at the flip house on South Cherokee.'

  'No problem,' Jim said. 'I'll get a couple of drivers to run the cars over to Terry's house. They'll be in the driveway before you get home. What else?'

  'Marilyn is worried about Sarah and Emily. They're each staying with a friend. I want you personally to pick them up and bring them home.'

  'Tell those kids Big Uncle Jim is on the way with the limo. What else?'

  'Stay with them till Terry and I get home.'

  'Duh,' he said. 'Do you think I'm so dumb I would just drop off a couple of teenage girls and leave them?'

  'Hey, I didn't think you were dumb enough to track blood through a crime scene, but I'll be damned if you didn't manage to do it.'

  He held up the three middle fingers on his right hand. 'You're a detective,' he said. 'Read between the lines.'

  Jim recruited his wife, Angel, and his best driver, Dennis Hoag. By 8:00 p.m., I was able to assure Marilyn that her daughters were safe at home, being looked after by three bodyguards and an equal number of watchdogs.

  'Plus Dennis is an ex-cop, and my father has a serious gun collection,' I reminded her, 'so they're safe.'

  'Thanks,' she said. 'Nothing makes a soccer mom feel more secure than knowing her little girls' babysitters have plenty of firepower.'

  Because Marilyn was a possible target, we talked her and Diana into waiting in a squad car outside the crime scene perimeter, while we went back to work.

  Jessica estimated the time of death between 4:00 and 6:00 p.m. Once again, she doubted if we'd get useable ballistics on the small-calibre bullets. Chris High and his team were canvassing the neighbourhood, but so far no witnesses.

  Not that we needed permission, but we politely asked Tony if we could talk to Marisol in private.

  'Does she need a lawyer?' he said.

  'No,' I said. 'What she doesn't need is to be arguing with her husband while we're trying to ask questions.'

  He gave us his best vote-for-me smile. A lot of cops have second-career plans. I haven't made mine yet, but Terry's dream is to become a stand-up comic. Tony's plan for life after LAPD is to run for office. I have no doubt that he can get elected to city council in his district. He's smart, he's Spanish, and if dark eyes and white teeth can get votes, the man is a shoo-in.

  'You know there's a reason Marisol and I fight so much,' he said. 'The make-up sex is fantastic.'

  'In that case,' Terry said, 'we'll do our best to keep her real pissed off.'

  We interviewed Marisol in the backyard, so she could smoke.

  'Anything you want to add that you didn't want to say in front of Tony and everyone else?' I asked.

  'No. Except that this house-flipping business, with Nora's books driving up the price, was the best gig I ever worked. And now it's over. Whoever did it might not have killed me, but he killed the goose that was laying the golden eggs.'

  'Are you really sure you don't want police protection?' Terry said.

  'You don't know me,' she said, lighting up a cigarette. 'I come from a small border town in Mexico. I grew up hating cops.'

  'Why'd you marry one?'

  'Because he's hung like a donkey, and marrying him got me a green card. So what if he's with LAPD. Two out of three ain't bad.'

  'What's your beef with cops?' Terry said.

  She inhaled deeply, and I had a pang of envy. I quit smoking almost ten years ago, but every now and then, I see someone under stress sucking on that tobacco crutch, and I think to myself, I could do that. Just one or two Marlboros a day. Sure. And by the end of the first week
I'd be buying cancer by the carton.

  She exhaled long and slow, and the smoke, backlit by the floodlights in the trees, wafted upward. Within seconds the nicotine pleasure molecules had reached her brain, and a calm spread over her face.

  'Where I grew up, the cops broke more laws than they enforced,' she said. 'They were corrupt. They were sadistic. One Sunday morning when I was eight years old, my brother Joaquin was taking me and my brother Manuel to church. Manuel was eleven. Joaquin was sixteen. We were poor, so he did what lots of poor kids did. He worked as a runner for one of the local drug dealers. Three cops pulled up in a car and started to shake him down. I'm not sure if they wanted drugs, or money, or names of people he worked for, but Joaquin spit in one of their faces. They started beating him, so Manuel jumped in to protect his big brother. They beat him too, and when the two of them were lying on the ground, the cops handcuffed them together and started kicking them. In the head, in the balls, everywhere. I screamed and screamed, until one of them took out his gun, pointed it at me, and pulled the trigger.'

  'Jesus,' Terry said.

  'The bullet bounced off the house behind me, and pieces of cement and glass were flying everywhere. Then the others took out their guns and started shooting. Some of the bullets came real close. Some they just fired in the air or at my feet. They could have killed me, but they didn't want to. They were just trying to scare the shit out of me. And they did. It ran down my legs. I fell to the ground crying, my little white church dress covered with shit, and they just laughed.'

  Tears ran down her cheeks. This was much more painful for her than the murders that happened earlier this evening.

  'That's horrible,' I said. 'What happened to your brothers?'

  'Joaquin never regained consciousness. A week later he died from a brain haemorrhage. Manuel lost a spleen, and he's got so much nerve damage on his left side, he'll walk with a cane for the rest of his life.'

  'I'm sorry,' I said. 'Not all cops are like that.'

  She shrugged. 'The fact that I married one is proof that God has a sense of humour. But I'll tell you boys, I'd rather have some Cabrón with a gun stalking me, than be followed around the clock by LA's finest. Any more questions?'

  'One,' Terry said. 'These illegals who do a lot of the work for you at the flip house - you got names?'

  She laughed. 'Yeah. Names, home addresses, social security numbers...you want photo IDs along with that? C'mon Terry, which part of illegal immigrant are you having trouble processing?'

  'Which part of "I'm trying to find the person who killed three of your partners and might be looking to do you next" are you having trouble processing? They're illegal, not invisible. Do you know where to find any of them?'

  She looked away and exhaled two lungs full of smoke. 'Jesus, you guys live in LA. You know how it works. I drive down to the parking lot at Home Depot or one of the other day-labourer pickup spots, and I grab a bunch of guys. Most of them still have border dust in their boots. I pay them cash, and when they make enough money, they go back to the wife and four kids, and they live like Mexican royalty.'

  'You said they've got knives, and shovels, and hate your guts. How did they feel about the three victims?'

  'You don't get the same workers every day, but we had our regulars. They liked Nora. Even the most illiterate among them knew she was a famous writer. Plus she spoke a little Spanish. Julia was la silenciosa, the silent one. I don't think they saw much of Jo. They don't like me because I'm el jefe del infierno, the boss from hell. If one of them was going to commit murder, he'd get drunk and put a screwdriver through my heart. He's not going to make house calls and cut off locks of hair.'

  'How'd you know about the hair?' I said. 'We didn't release that.'

  'Tony released it. He told me what the killer did to Jo. I'm betting he did it to the other two.'

  'Tony told you more than he should have,' I said. 'What happened to Jo's hair is something we're keeping under wraps. You may be right about the illegal workers, but they may know something. You mind driving down to Home Depot with us and picking out a few that you recognise?'

  'Sure. How's tomorrow morning?'

  'Make it Monday,' I said. 'We have to see Charlie in the hospital first thing tomorrow.'

  'Chest pains.' She said it like she doubted it.

  'And half a bag on,' I said. 'He must've gotten to the party and started drinking early.'

  She shook her head. 'Charlie wasn't at the party. I don't know where he got drunk, but he never showed up at the flip house.'

  'The obligatory question,' I said. 'What time did you get there?'

  'I got to the house at seven in the morning, and I was working like a crazy woman, prepping the place for the party all day. But I understand that you have to ask.' She took another drag on her cigarette.

  'Thanks,' I said. 'We'll meet you Monday morning at the Home Depot parking lot. Which one and what time?'

  'The one on Sunset near the station. Six a.m.'

  'We'll see you there,' I said. 'Thanks.'

  'In the meantime, do us a favour,' Terry said. 'Stick close to Tony. There's still a killer out there, and you really may be on his list.'

  'I have a gun at home,' she said. 'I learnt how to use it when I was eight and a half.'

  We watched her walk away.

  'Hell of a story,' Terry said. 'No wonder she hates cops.'

  'Yeah,' I said. 'I just wonder if she hates them enough to kill their families.'

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Reggie Drabyak showed up ten minutes later, drunker than Charlie and more pissed off than Marisol.

  He slurred a bunch of trash talk about how he and Charlie would get the muhfuhs who shot their wives. Kilcullen took his car keys, tossed him in the back of a black and white, and shipped him home.

  'The fun never stops here in Margaritaville,' Terry said. 'Who's next? Lindsay? Paris? Nick Nolte?'

  By 10:00 p.m. Terry and I had done as much as we could at the scene. After about half a dozen tries Terry finally convinced Marilyn that the girls were safe and sound and that they'd be much happier if their parents came home calm, collected, and well-fed. He suggested we all go out to a late dinner. Terry wanted Chinese, I wanted Italian, and, as usual, Diana was flexible.

  'I think whoever is under the threat of death gets to pick,' Marilyn said. 'I vote for Doughboys.'

  Doughboys started out as a bakery. Their red velvet cake is a magnet for locals and tourists alike. They expanded into a cafe, and I've never walked out of there without having to loosen my belt a notch.

  Marilyn is one of those people who eats when she's under stress, and nothing makes you hungrier than thinking someone is planning to shoot you in the back of the head.

  'This may be my last meal,' she said when we sat down. 'In which case I want a stack of pineapple, coconut, and macadamia nut pancakes, swimming in hot caramel sauce.'

  'Hey, add a side of sausage,' Terry said. 'That way if the shooter doesn't kill you, your dinner will.'

  'It's not your last meal,' Diana said. 'Nothing's going to happen.'

  'Especially if you and the girls leave town for a few days,' Terry said. 'Maybe you could fly to—'

  'No,' Marilyn said. 'Absolutely, positively, definitely not. And if I'm being too vague, allow me to add, "No fucking way.'"

  'Do you mind if I ask the logic behind your decision?' Terry said.

  'Sarah just started college. Emily just started tenth grade. You want me to pull them out of school? For a few days? Are you telling me it will be solved in a few days?'

  'Fine,' Terry said. 'Just wait till this maniac pops you, then the girls can take off school for the wake and the funeral.'

  'Maybe he's not killing off our little real estate cartel,' Marilyn said. 'Maybe he's just killing random cop wives.'

  'Then you're still a target.'

  'But it wouldn't be down to me and Marisol. He'd have thousands to choose from.'

  'Jesus, I hope you're wrong,' Terry said.

&
nbsp; 'You're hoping I'm next on the hit list?'

  'No, dammit. I just convinced Kilcullen not to issue a department-wide warning. What if I'm wrong? What if this killer is after all cops' wives and families?'

  'Well, if he is,' Diana said, leaning over and stroking my cheek, 'that's another good reason not to marry you.'

  'I don't remember asking,' I said. My cell phone rang. 'Can we discuss this some other time?'

  'Sure,' she said. 'Marilyn, don't let me forget. Discuss marriage with Mike some other time.'

  I answered the phone. 'Hello.'

  'Sorry to bother you so late, mate, but I've been interviewing Nora Bannister's neighbours, and I've got something you and Biggs might fancy hearing.'

  It was Chris High.

  I glanced around the table. Marilyn and Diana were chatting it up about weddings. Terry was sitting quietly, focused on me.

  'Chris, if you've got something, mate - anything - it's never too bloody late to call.'

  Terry nodded. He was locked in to my half of the conversation.

  'It may be nothing,' Chris said.

  'Try me.'

  'Well, it's a quiet neighbourhood. Not too many people around. And the folks who are home are locked up in these big houses, completely isolated from the outside world. Nobody hears or sees anything because they're either at the pool, or watching Dr Phil, or working on their next martini. But this one woman who lives two houses up the road from Bannister said that she left a FedEx package at her front door for pickup at three, and it was gone when she checked at five. So I thought, maybe the FedEx driver saw something.'

  'And you tracked down the FedEx guy,' I said.

  'It took a bit of time,' High said. 'FedEx was cooperative, but I still had to jump through hoops before I found someone who could give me his name and home phone number.'

  'And?'

  'The driver's name is Joe Price. According to FedEx he picked up the package at 4:04 p.m., and according to Price, that's when he saw a black BMW convertible pull out of Bannister's driveway, and take off in a big hurry.'